


Let Me Eat Cake

by Falsefaith



Category: Glee
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Party, Established Relationship, F/F, Growing Old Together, Growing Up Together, Jealousy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falsefaith/pseuds/Falsefaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's that time of year again. That special day that celebrates something Quinn has no control over -- her birthday. Quinn is surrounded by the people she loves but can't help the lousy mood she's in. Along with friends, the green-eyed monster had also made an appearance to the party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizardmm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardmm/gifts), [Anguissette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anguissette/gifts).



> A/N: This is for all the people who wanted to see more Quinntana and got nothing. Our pairing had been sucked into the Glee black hole. This was beta’d by Lizardmm. Leave your thoughts. I might make this into a two or three-shot. Thank you for the support.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own this show, if I did this would be canon. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the only part I can claim. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers. No copyright infringement is intended.

I should have been outside with everyone. All my loved ones.

Instead, for the last ten minutes I’ve been standing in my bathroom and staring down at the pit of my sink. It’s pathetic. My mind whirls with fragmented thoughts, and yet I could explain each one of them if anyone asked me -- I know my fears and insecurities well. I’d venture to say that we’re old acquaintances. Grade school bffs.

I can’t tear my gaze away from the distorted reflection at the bottom of the basin. The private showdown has been going on for more than a few minutes. Judgmental eyes stare back at me. No one looks good like this, but I could easily point out five things that stick out like a sore thumb. In moments like this it feels like I’m two people in one body; one side knowing full well she’s head bitch while the other is the kid that gets shoved into lockers. Conflicting thoughts, my internal war.

I must have zoned out for quite some time, so lost in my my own head, that I didn’t notice I’m no longer alone. Hands slip around my stomach with a familiar ease and I can feel the weight of her body press against me. Her mouth is at the back of my neck, steady breaths flaring against my skin; it tickles.

“Quinn? I’m sorry for disrupting whatever person-to-sink moment you’re having here,” she whispers. “But people are starting to worry about the birthday girl.”

She sighs when I don’t reply immediately.

What the heck am I supposed to say? It’ll feel silly the moment I say the words out loud. What’s even sillier is that I let myself get this way when I know it’s ridiculous and crazy to.

I can’t bring my gaze up to look at her in the reflection of our vanity mirror.

“It’s okay, babe. I told them it’s probably ‘cause you’re just getting into your birthday suit.” She smiles against my skin. I’m almost positive it’s her half-hearted smile. The one that comes out after eye rolls, awkward moments, long sighs, tired nights, or simply when she’s beat.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be out there soon. I just--” I can’t gather my thoughts fast enough. _Flustered_. “I wanted to pull myself out of my funk before joining you guys again.”

My hands smooth out the invisible creases at the skirt of my dress.

“Your funk? Last time I checked, we took a nice long shower together,” she says. A wider smile cracks against my neck. “I’m pretty sure I rubbed you down a good couple times, too.”

She’s such a perv and yet, adorably so. But no matter how cute I think she is, I still swat her whenever she speaks like that. The girl must like getting hit because she never seems to change.

“Hey. It’s true.” She lets out a soft laugh and rests her head against me. “You can’t hit me over the truth.” The last part of her words taper like a child who’s shy about speaking up. It’s vulnerable.

It’s my undoing.

“Shh. One of our friends might hear you.” I look over at the bathroom door and catch a glimpse of her face. She’s stepped off to the side and gives me an eye roll. I’m not being that ridiculous. Cautiousness is not ridiculous.

“I doubt anyone will be in our bedroom and creeping up on us like some freak.”

“You never know.” Our conversation fades.

“What’s going on with you, Quinn?” Her gaze drops and there are the beginning signs of a frown creasing on her brow. I turn myself around and lean against the sink, gripping at the curved edge of the white porcelain, shifting so she’s hovering over me.

She knows what’s wrong, I know what’s wrong, hell, half of our friends could probably guess it. You can cut the tension in our loft with a knife sometimes. But to say it. To acknowledge it, even after all these years, is still hard.

I’m turning thirty today. And yet, my insecurities have me feeling like I’m no older than our days at McKinley. I‘m being petty and it’s silly. Hopefully I’ll grow out of this soon; I can’t imagine feeling like this for the rest of our lives.

All it takes this time is seeing Santana sharing a couple of private whispers and her quirking a few charming smile at the special blonde in her life -- the one she isn’t dating -- to get my stomach going into knots. Brittany’s here. She’s in our lives for every major event and God, I must be masochistic because I’m the one who insists she comes. And in truth, I do want her here. She’s a good friend. A great one in fact. Things just rarely end up with me showing my good side.

I reach out for Santana’s hands and the small action is enough to soften her features. It makes my heart flutter to know that I can still do that to her. To pry away her harsh exterior with stolen kisses and soft touches.

We’ve gone through this many times: fights of all levels during a handful of milestones, one school reunion, and three weddings. It’s not always bad. I could tell you the number of times I ignored the heavy tug of the green-eyed monster in my chest. Or when Santana has gone above and beyond to be reassuring with me. She’s the greatest cheerleader to walk this planet with the way she can prop a person up. But then there are the bad days, the days where her patience runs dry and we snap. The days we tumble down opposite sides of the same mountain are the ones that stand out the most -- fights that sear my memories.

“It’s nothing.” I smile at her and tug on her hands to signal her to come closer. She does. “I’m just scared at the realities of aging and the effects it will have on my face.”

She laughs and kisses my cheek. “You’re losing your edge, Fabray. I think the only thing age is doing to you is making you suck at lying.”

I drop my mouth in mocked offense and earn myself another eye roll.

“Once again, what’s troubling your pretty head?”

“Same ‘ol, same ‘ol.” I make an attempt to smile, forcing it out like our relationship depends on it. “I’m sad to inform you that you’re officially dating a self-conscious teenager.”

She quirks her mouth and assesses me. I can see her brain working in overdrive.

“One, I will never understand you. You’re the only woman that does _this_ to me.” She pulls my hand and places it over her heart. I almost gasp at the sudden contact. But then I feel it. I feel the strength of her soul beating beneath my palm and I’m submerged in comfort. “Two, your comment is creepy to a pedi factor considering what we like to do to each other on a daily basis. I’m not dating jailbait. No matter how pretty and young you look, you’re legal.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. One day you’ll believe me when I say, _I only have eyes for you_.” Santana playfully sings the last of her words. A grin creeps onto her lips and I can’t resist a taste of her. I kiss the mischievous smile, pouring all my feeling into one deep kiss. It’s soft, but there is so much passion behind it that I forget to breathe. She is the one to pull back first, and it’s a good thing because I need oxygen. So does she.  

“I do...” My words linger as a new set of thoughts emerge. _Impure thoughts_ if you’d asked my high school self.

“What are you thinking about?” Brown eyes narrow at me. Sometimes I forget that she can read me like an open book when it comes to certain subjects.

“Nothing,” I lean in to whisper. “I just had a few fleeting thoughts of some fun we could have... considering it _is_ my birthday.”

“Oh, how quickly things change,” she purrs. “Is my Miss Prim and Proper suggesting some pre-cake dirtiness?” Her hands work on the outer buttons of my jacket. It only takes her a matter of seconds to work her way past my layers. “Or were you thinking of post-cake defilement?”

I feel her thumbs teasing the underside of my bra and the world around us begins to unravel.

It’s me and her. My only equal.

The way it’s meant to be.

“How about _with_ cake dirtiness?” I’m being suggestive but she’s too busy gawking at my chest to register the words immediately.

But then it hits her. I smirk.

“Wait. You’re serious?” Her eyes widen and her expression becomes stiff. “Don’t mess with a girl when it comes to sex or cake. Combine the two and we’re talking about DEFCON one if it’s a lie.”

“Who says I’m messing with you?” I rasp the words, hoping that I sound seductive rather than silly. Trying to be sexy apparently doesn’t work well for me when it comes to Santana. High school prey was much easier -- then again, high school boys weren’t really a challenge. Oh, the good ‘ol days of power highs.

My hands loosen her tucked shirt and I tease my nails across the surface of her abs. I can feel her breathing change under my touch. I know when she’s aroused.

After what feels like hours, she breaks off the contact with a huff and turns away from me. I may know my girlfriend, but she’s still a girl and that means her moods, at times, are still an unknown variable. Her brow furrows and she jams her shirt back into place. Her hands are fast to redo what I had undone and I’m beginning to doubt my initial assessment of her being aroused. Horny, pissed. I guess there is a thin line that separates the two.

“Santana?” The voice that comes forth is surprisingly shaky. After her quick readjustments and double take in the mirror, she snaps open the door to our bedroom. “Where are you going?”

There is no answer, just the thud of determined heels crossing our hardwood floors. I almost dart after her, but I stop myself when I see the current state of the clothes I’m in. The last thing I wanted was for this evening to come to a halt due to our occasional display of dysfunctionality.

I redo the buttons of my outfit as best I can. Damn my choice in clothing for the evening. Layers, layers, layers. A frustrating thing to deal with when you’re trying to be quick.

As I struggle I can overhear Santana’s voice echo from our kitchen.

“Gather up bitches, skinny ho’s, and people I barely know.” She claps her hands loud enough that even my head jerks up. “We’re unfortunately wrapping up this little shindig early, so let’s grab our coats, purses, manbags and whatever else you brought with you.”

“Santana!” I yell the best I can from our bathroom. And damn it to hell whoever invented this stupid dress -- the buttons all slip out from their slits too easily. Doesn’t this defeat the point of having buttons in the first place? But this does explain how quickly Santana can get some of my clothing undone.

I can hear the commotion and a few deep voices mentioning that we hadn’t gotten to the singing or the cake. Santana is quick to suggest voicemail, ecards, and a couple local bakeries as viable options.

It’s Kurt that mentions my perfectly good cake on the kitchen island and Rachel squeaking out an inquiry about what the heck we plan to do with it. There is a lot of cake.

I toss aside my last layer, an outer jacket, and stumble out of our room. Our kitchen is only a few strides away.  

“If you really must know, I plan to eat that entire cake off of my girlfriend’s--”

“Santana!”

The devilish grin that crosses her face as she spins around to look at me wipes away my frown. It’s a brilliant smile. I swear, my breathing hitches at times from being around her. But I’ll slap anyone before they ever get a chance to tell her that. She has a big enough ego.

Santana steps off to the side and I see the cake is lit with candles. Someone switches the lights off and she moves me towards the island. It only takes to the count of 3 before the beautiful melody of friends singing happy birthday fills our home. Tears fill my eyes.

Before I know it, I’m making a wish and blowing out thirty stubborn candles. It’s a pain in the rear and, no doubt, the idea of my lovely girlfriend.

We cut and serve the cake together. My feelings from earlier are quickly retreating into pandora’s box -- where they should stay, permanently. But if past behavior is a good indicator of what’s to come, I’m sure I’ll take a peek from time to time.

“What happened to the bottom part of my cake?” I speak quietly so only Santana can hear.

“I saved it for later.” She gives me a wink and a peck on the cheek before retreating to the living room. “Happy birthday, baby.”

I watch as she pushes past the crowd. Everyone seems to be enjoying the cake; that’s always a plus.

“Okay everyone. Double chew and swallow in the next couple seconds cause I wasn’t kidding about wrapping up this fiesta.”

I’m floored. All I can manage is to watch in my frozen state. She’s actually sorting their stuff and helping them move this process along. Who knew my girlfriend had such a thing for cake and sex?

“Grab your crap, ‘cause it’s fair game for me to look through and barter out if it’s left behind.” Strong hands shove various bags and coats at their respective owners. “Más rápido, por favor.”

“We’re still eating cake.” Puck lifts his plate in protest. “And this isn’t even my jacket.”

She frowns, eyes raking over the article of clothing in question as she invades his personal bubble. A newly manicured finger jabs into his chest. I wince along with him. Her pokes can hurt.

“Emerald coats are in this season. You should try it and thank me later for pimpin’ your wardrobe.”

“Jesus. Is this what happens when you’re in heat?” He frowns and inhales the last of his cake.

“I have yet to have my share of the cake. So go!”

I finally regain control over my body and, better yet, my voice.

“ _Santana_.” I hiss at her. I know I shouldn’t, but at times she needs to remember her manners. “You guys, don’t go.” I walk to the open apex of our apartment -- all of our rooms meet at this single point. I love the open space. “Santana is a horrible hostess, so just ignore her and enjoy yourselves.”

For a brief moment, they almost seem to consider my suggestion, their eyes darting between mine and Santana’s. I can’t see her face, but whatever expression she has on must be scaring them a bit.

“Okay... As much as we would love to extend our stay, we value our lives a little more than one night of birthday fun,” Kurt says. His eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and amusement. I can see “self-preservation” written clearly across their faces. “Sorry, Quinn. Let’s grab breakfast sometime soon.”

A few of them nod in agreement as they all retreat.

I have to admit that the gang do manage to take our craziness with a good sense of humor.

I can hear Santana forcing out goodbyes. I do the same, waving and saying my own farewells from across the room. For a rather small group, their voices loudly fill the hallway as they make their way through. I smirk when I overhear someone mention a local diner and a few of them cheer.

Then it hits me. We’re alone and Santana isn’t the only one who hasn’t had cake.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I work hastily at undoing my clothing. I peel off the dress and drop it to the floor before my feet. The flats I wear are easy to kick off too.

As I retreat back to our room I peek back out to where Santana is standing. She hasn’t noticed my state of undress. She’s too busy mumbling about how messy our friends are for grown adults.

“Santana.” I toss the bra in my hands onto the pile I had started. “I think I’m ready for cake.”

Whenever I manage to surprise my girlfriend I have to laugh. Her expression is priceless. The girl is always so quick on her feet and ten steps ahead of everyone. So on those rare occasions when she’s blindsided, her brain has to play catch up to the situation surrounding her. Puzzle pieces falling into their correct places. But thoughts quickly turn into action and before I know it, she’s bolting right past me and going straight towards our refrigerator. She dives straight for the box of saved cake and moves with determination in my direction.

If you are to marvel at my girlfriend’s many skills, do remember to worship her talents at maneuvering in high heels.

She’s mastered the art of wearing them on all surfaces, soft mattresses included.

 

 


End file.
